


teach a man to fish

by Darkfromday



Series: The Last Kings of Lucis [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ardyn is Fed Up™, Eos' monarchs receive royal dressings-down, Gen, Queen Sylva fears no man, Regis is the most stubborn man ever born
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkfromday/pseuds/Darkfromday
Summary: 43-year-old Regis has his diplomatic meeting crashed.





	teach a man to fish

**Author's Note:**

> [side A](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18327584) | **side B**

Regis Lucis Caelum's evening plans are derailed in a matter of moments.

At first glance, everything is going well. He is able to send Noctis to bed himself for the first time in many years, and doesn't miss the little shine in his son's eyes as he bids him be off. Ignis follows him dutifully to the room the boys will share while they reside here, and Regis pretends that they will heed his words and go to bed  _at once_ rather than 'after another hour of chatting'. Sylva meets him at the top of the stairs shortly after (fresh from wishing Lunafreya and Ravus a good night too, their ages be damned) and invites him to her preferred study for a nightcap.

He knows from years of correspondence with her that she does not take anything stronger than well-steeped tea after dark unless there is something serious to discuss, and so he steels himself for a detailed discussion of their children and their fates as he lends her his arm and follows her directions to reach the study.

It is all too perfect, too easy and undisturbed. Regis should have known from the moment the study door  _clicked_ closed that any plots or plans which appeared to be unfolding smoothly would soon blow up in his face as strongly as his Regalia's engine once did long ago.

 

"My compliments on the brandy," he hums from his spot by the window. They're seated comfortably across from one another in matching silver wingback chairs, swirling matching glass tumblers. He suspects the brand she's shared with him is at least a couple of centuries old.

Sylva confirms his guess with the barest of nods. "My thrice-great grandmother planted and tended the grapes which would come to make it," she elucidates. "It seemed appropriate to have something old as we discuss something even older."

"Indeed. Always nice to have courage in the face of the gods."

The queen's smile is rueful. As she gazes out the study window, the last sliver of sun disappears completely from the distant horizon. The shadows yawn and stretch over Tenebrae and the rest of the world, and even at the edges of the Oracles' sacred land, some of those shadows appear darker than normal.

 _Daemons_.

"Yes, even here," she says, which is how Regis knows he has a pinched look on his face. "The last fifty years have been... difficult for the Fleuret line. Even barring difficulties with Niflheim, their attacks and their twisted experiments, our healing magic has not been as potent. It takes me longer to cure the afflicted of the Scourge than it did my mother, and her longer than it did hers. I have had to scale back the rune borders which seal away daemons to the greater cities only... which has not endeared me to my people who have spent their lives in the countryside."

His eyes are drawn to her silver staff, the brighter twin to the staff he left upstairs in his guest chamber, and his gut writhes. Both her battle wound and her tale of scaling back magical protections hit close to home. "I am sorry, Sylva."

"Don't be, Regis. Do not blame yourself for the price of the Oracle's gift, a price which I and my ancestors paid gladly to stand at the side of Lucian kings. If anything, my deeper communions with the Astrals have brought me more strength than prior Oracles ever attained in life."

"For your injury then," Regis insists, and hides a smile behind a sip at her exasperated glance. "I never envisioned you becoming a reflection of me."

He's grateful when she nudges his uninjured leg and laughs. For a few moments, it allows him to go back in time and remember her as a young princess, sneaking him and his retinue through Tenebraen lands on the back way to Accordo. Sylva has always been graceful and full of life, with a dash of mischief—and it's comforting to see that she is raising her daughter to be the same way.

"It's said that the Oracle of Tenebrae and the King of Lucis echo each other in many ways," Sylva teases. "I suppose I had to make sure you could still keep up with me in your old age."

He pretends to wince. "Ahhh, you cut so close..."

"You'll survive, old friend."

"...But not for as long as I'd like."

In the quiet, the shadows crawl closer.

Sylva's sigh sends ripples across her drink. Now she deliberately avoids his gaze; if he didn't know her better, he'd think she was about to cry, but Tenebrae's queen is made of steel. The last time she shed tears was twelve years ago when Verus Nox fell in battle against the Niffs. And even her beloved, the father of her children, was set aside as swiftly as possible in the name of the counteroffensive their nation undertook for vengeance.

"Sylva," Regis says more quietly. "The prophecy of the Chosen King is not mine to bear, but the burden of the Ring is—and has always been, and _will_ be for some time. You know this."

"I know this," she agrees. "And yet.... Knowing is one thing. Understanding another."

_Ah, Sylva._

"Nearly ten years it's been, since you first told me the Draconian's words. That your only son was to be the light which would burn away the darkness shrouding our star and bring back the true dawn. And it's been barely half that long since you told me how the Ring's pull on you has grown stronger, and the voices with it. ...However, I still have not come to terms with losing both a steadfast friend and his remarkable little boy."

He feels the Ring heat up for a moment on his finger, hears a mournful hum in his head from the Old Kings. His dutiful ancestors are as displeased with fate's timing as are the living. The end of their long vigil and the long line of Lucis both approach, quicker than anyone is ready for. Unlike _them_ , though, Sylva has not once urged him to take another wife and provide Lucis with another king-to-be, which has earned her his lifelong trust and respect.

_It is... soothing, to have my one selfish choice validated by another._

No one can replace Aulea in his heart, and (though it will end his entire line) no one will replace her in his bed. The brief comfort of another's flesh and the insurance of an heir is not worth the eternity of self-loathing—though on that, he and his uncle have long disagreed.

Yet they  _both_ agree that another child is not worth the confusion and pain on Noctis' face after so long with just the three of them.

"I have many regrets," he tells her now. "Among them is leaving my family and friends behind once I have passed. You have never not been counted among those I will miss and regret burdening, Sylva."

"I will miss you too."

Regis sets his tumbler aside for a few heartbeats. "I will pass peacefully, though, knowing you will remain to protect our children as long as you are able. Perhaps I will never properly repay you for risking your life for Noctis' all those years ago, but knowing he will have your guidance in fulfilling the prophecy is a boon the line of Lucis does not deserve."

"I will do what I can for him when it's time," Sylva says, and then pauses. "For him... and for Lunafreya."

 _That_ gives him pause.

"For Lunafreya as well?"

"Yes." The queen takes a longer sip. Her blonde brows furrow. "I recall our agreement when Noctis was Chosen. You would give your son as balanced a childhood as any king could—enough training to make a fine king, enough freedom to make a fine man. I would continue to train Lunafreya to succeed me one day as Oracle and queen of Tenebrae. To preserve their sanity and happiness, we would keep from them the sacrifices each would need to make. But this deception... has become more difficult."

Regis makes his voice firmer. _If she has broken her word_... "Noctis is ignorant of his destined battle against the Accursed and the cost of accessing Providence. Does the same still go for your daughter?"

Sylva pins him in place with her stare.

"It is not as simple as your tone implies. Yes, Lunafreya is unaware of her friend's destiny, and she remains ignorant of the cost of creating covenants with the gods. But besides our children's rampant curiosity, there are several things we must still contend with."

"Such as?"

"Lunafreya is beginning to suspect there is more to the prophecy than what she knows," she says bluntly. "She has always been extremely intelligent and willing to share what knowledge she gleans—you recall that it was she who confirmed to Noctis that he was the True King of legend, against both our wishes. Her close relationship with Gentiana also concerns me."

Regis looks over Sylva's shoulder to the corner nearest the door. There is a sparkle there, a swirling gust of snow he is sure wasn't present a moment before.

"Gentiana is aware of our plan," the queen continues, "but she chose to approach and bond with Lunafreya anyway. From birth until the present, she has been present and willing to whisper the Astrals' words whenever my back is too long turned. No doubt the Draconian is behind it. This suggests to me that Noctis' training and power may not be enough to bring about Providence. He may yet need the power of the gods, sealed through covenants... he may yet need Lunafreya to give her life."

Lightning prickles across Regis' palms. An appalling image of an older Lunafreya brushes across his eyes: drawn and snow-pale, with tattered clothes and blue eyes dulled by the weight of connecting the gods to his son.

"I will not allow it," he declares. "Lunafreya deserves a life as long and undisturbed as her brother's must be. Sylva—we must remain strong in this."

"It is not about strength! I am no less determined than you to spare my child an early grave if I can, but we must also face reality. We once posited that the lack of mention of the Oracles meant that their power was unnecessary to fulfill the prophecy. But there is no doubt that my line is the main reason why the sun yet rises in the sky. What if the Crystal deems Noctis too weak to ascend after he has gathered all the weapons of his ancestors and donned the Ring? It would be poor repayment for Noctis' sacrifice for his friend to stand aside and let darkness envelop the world, just so she might die of old age like others do."

Her voice is fierce, and contains a scolding he deserves; chastened, he lowers his head. "...You are right, of course."

Sylva drains the last of her glass, and reaches across to pat Regis' still-staticky hands. "Have faith, Regis. Lucis and Tenebrae will endure. Noctis will be revered as a hero, and his council and yours will steer your kingdom well after his reign ends. Lunafreya will be honored if she should have to follow the gods' path. And Ravus will remain to guide his homeland through whatever changes follow the true dawn."

He thanks her quietly, feeling the familiar twist in his heart when he dwells too long on his son's fate. The pain has doubled in size now that Sylva's daughter stands a chance of dying too, after all their plans for the opposite. Regis had long since accepted Noctis' life as the cost for the lives of the world, but nearly ten years had been spent trying to ensure _his_ life was the only price to be paid. Gentiana's lingering presence is a wrench he did not anticipate.

The encroaching shadows slip inside and snuff out the candles in the study—Sylva flinches, but Regis barely startles.

_Who else will we have to lose in our race to the end of days?_

"Speaking of Ravus," he murmurs. "How much does he know?"

"Ravus? Noth—" the queen begins, before a yelp just outside the door makes them both leap to their feet.

"H-How did you get in here?!"

"Perseverance, my dear boy. I've learned it gets you through most  _any_ obstacle."

"Fuck," Regis has time to say just before said door swings open and more shadows sweep into the room. These particular shadows are accompanied by a man, or an approximation of one.

"It doesn't take two millennia to learn that starting a meeting without all the participants is the height of rudeness," Ardyn Lucis Caelum chides. His smirk makes the shadows on the wall shiver. "What a blessing it is that you can catch me up!"

 

"Your Highness," Sylva says with a deep curtsy. "I see you've found Fenestala's resident sleepwalker. I trust he wasn't caught eavesdropping?" Her pointed gaze is directed toward Ravus, who stands awkwardly just behind the archduke of Lucis in loose nightclothes.

To his credit, Ardyn plays along, mussing the prince's blond hair as if he is eleven and not twenty-one. "Oh, he was caught, but I daresay he didn't hear very much. His puzzled expression rather gives that away, hmm?"

"Nevertheless, Ravus will apologize," she insists.

The prince flushes, but obeys. He bends low at the waist for both Regis and Ardyn, and speaks to the carpet. "My sincerest apologies, Your Majesty, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect."

"You're forgiven, little prince," Ardyn assures him magnanimously. He even tosses one of his signature hats on Ravus' head. "When  _hasn't_ a young man been attacked by wanderlust in the still of the night? Though perhaps you should run along to bed now, so your queen mother can deal with you come morning."

Ravus leaves so fast he leaves a white and lavender afterimage.

Regis breathes out very, very slowly. "Ardyn, you are meant to be in Insomnia."

"Bah! What fun is Insomnia without its stuffy king and shy prince? I did what state matters didn't bore me and left the rest to Clarus. It's only been ten hours since I left; surely he and Gladiolus are handling things well enough."

"What about your  _guard_ , Ardyn? I assigned Cor to you for a reason. Why is he not here with you?"

"Who says he isn't?" The immortal blinks and then snaps his fingers. "Ah! You're right, I  _did_ lose him somewhere around Altissia. I'm sure he's caught up by now, though—have you tried searching the front gates? He may have been waylaid by the guards."

" _Ardyn_."

His distant uncle proclaims "You're no fun!" and then promptly ignores him in favor of Tenebrae's queen. With a swish of his midnight-blue cape, Ardyn closes the distance between them and bows generously, while taking her hand and kissing it.

"Your Majesty Queen Sylva. Always a pleasure."

She blushes, overwhelmed by his abrupt shift in attention. "Th-the pleasure is mine."

"Goodness, how long has it been—fifteen years?"

"Perhaps not that long. But long enough. After your letter I didn't expect your arrival..."

Ardyn's eyes gleam. "Something told me that you two little birds would jump on the chance to speak privately thousands of miles from my nephew's precious Crystal. What can I say? I just  _couldn't_ stay away."

Regis' jaw tightens.

By contrast, Sylva appears unbothered by the Accursed's pointed jabs at them. Although she's several inches shorter than him, she meets his eyes without fear and slips the rest of her hand into his, the better to squeeze it welcomingly. "Have you come to reasonably discuss my agreement with Regis?"

"I'm not a fan of  _reasonably_ doing anything." But Ardyn pauses, somewhat mollified by the Oracle's gaze and the warmth of her hand. Some of the darkness in the room and around the palace recedes, and Regis breathes easier.

Of the two of them, Sylva has always had a more soothing effect on Ardyn than he could ever manage. The light of her Oracle magic burns him, but she is careful not to activate the healing component of it the few times he comes to visit; in turn, he keeps the daemons which trail his steps at bay when gallivanting around Tenebrae. Knowing Ardyn's mercurial temper and penchant for creating chaos, Regis isn't sure what stays his hand here. Lucis has the benefit of having the Accursed's relatives existing within its borders—what boon does Tenebrae have?

"Please sit," the queen requests now. "I doubt you rested once on your journey here."

"I don't  _tire_ the way you mortals do, my dear." He releases her hand and strolls further into the room anyway, sinking into the chair Regis was formerly sitting in. A wiggle of his fingers brings Regis' tumbler of half-finished brandy to his hand, and he manages a generous sip from  _that_ before his reigning nephew can get his thoughts back on track.

"Why did you truly leave Insomnia?"

"I already told you." Ardyn toasts his king. "I knew you and the lovely little queen here would be discussing your asinine plan to fatten up your children on sanitized stories of the Chosen King. It seemed prudent to remind you that your plan is puerile and will traumatize your children and turn them against you."

Sylva reaches quietly for her staff.

Regis keeps still, and keeps his voice firm. "I will not turn my son into a walking corpse."

"He's already dead," Ardyn scoffs dismissively. "Very fine looking for a corpse, but he's been dead for eight years."

"And you for nearly two millennia?"

The room gets colder and darker still, and some of the shadows which had receded return to choke the corners. Dark tears stream down Ardyn's face as he leans forward, and Regis flinches back from that terrifyingly familiar visage. But "...Indeed" is all that the Accursed hisses.

Sylva interjects. "I understand that you are concerned with our resolve—perhaps you fear our sentiment for our children will keep us from doing what must be done. I assure you that is not the case. When the time comes and you can no longer hold back the darkness of the Long Night, Noctis will be ready and willing to help you find rest."

"Thanks to my own efforts only," the immortal archduke sneers. "If I granted Noctis half the indulgences and freedoms his father has, he would be too fond of me to twist the knife."

"Tormenting a child with practiced neglect is in no way superior to treating him with the kindness he seldom finds outside his immediate circle," Regis shoots back. He feels a flicker of anger for the first time which smothers his discomfort. "Noctis deserves your attention and regard as much as I did when I was his age, and my father before me, and his before him. You should seek his understanding and not his hatred before it is too late. He's more than considerate enough to perform a simple mercy-killing in twenty or thirty years—"

Ardyn barks out a laugh. The black tears hit the gray carpet and burn tiny spots to ash. "You think I will be able to hold the daemons under my skin back for another  _thirty years_?"

_What?_

It is the first time he's considered that his all-powerful ancestor may not have enough power left to give Noctis a decent lifespan, or even a respectable amount of time as King of Lucis before becoming Chosen. Yet at the same time—the Ring of the Lucii burns his finger again, and Regis winces. The Old Kings whisper darkly about limited time:  ** _not much longer, almost time, almost time. The Chosen King must rise soon_**. The sudden collision of two opposing forces makes him feel gray and dizzy.

He needs to sit down.

"Regis—!"

Sylva is at his elbow. Gently, she guides him to the chair she vacated and eases him down, retrieving his cane from Ardyn's outstretched hand. Regis grits his teeth, and accepts the cane back blindly.

"Settle yourself, Majesty. Your son is nowhere near ready to sit in that big chair of yours."

"...I'm fine," he manages to sigh.

Sylva sniffs. "You are  _not_ fine. You suffered a shock. I assume you haven't discussed how much time we have left before this moment."

"He has not _given_ me a firm time limit."

To that, Ardyn shakes his head. His face and eyes have returned to their normal glamour. "I have none. I only know that your screeching, squabbling forefathers are correct. You may yet reach fifty. Noctis will not."

_Gods._

"Noctis is training even now to surpass his father in combat," Sylva says; unnecessarily, since both men are already well aware. "And Lunafreya is skilled already in healing the Scourge from victims. Your anger is unneeded, Ardyn—our children will be ready to play their parts long before Noctis takes the throne. And... even once Regis is gone, I will ensure this is so."

"Oh, no you won't," Ardyn sing-songs. " _You_ will be gone in another fifteen years at most."

Regis' head jerks up. Sylva stares at the Accursed, frozen in place.

"How do you...?"

Ardyn rises with both arms spread, and points with his left to the injury scarring Sylva's back. "Glauca's blade was made of more than metal, my dear. The Scourge slept in that greatsword, and he knew it when he swung it at you and little Noct. The injury still pains you, yes...?"

She blanches, and seems to shrink as he comes over to poke and prod at her covered back. "Of course. But I... believed the Oracles were immune to even Scourge-tainted blades."

"Well, perhaps if the  _whole_ weapon were made of the stuff! But as it is, the innocent steel of the blade was able to wound you and the disease was able to enter your blood, where your magic and your immune system have been valiantly fighting it off ever since. But eventually, with your strength failing you..."

Sylva exhales, and carefully doesn't look at either of them. "Then... perhaps we should plan for my eventual quarantine."

Ardyn dismisses this too. "If you were going to daemonify, you would have done so years ago. As it is now, _I'd_ have to infect you with a conduit and wait  _months_ for it to kill and overtake you... far too boring. Awfully vindictive too. No no, you'll just pass on quietly, if more quickly than you would have otherwise."

Regis stares at one of his oldest friends and feels as though the carpet is swallowing them both, bite by bite—except that Sylva is going down faster than him after all. Not for the first time he thinks back to that fateful day—when Niflheim had attacked the manor, and nearly taken Sylva and Noctis in one fell stroke. Noctis' burst of magic had allowed them enough time to regroup, and Regis had kept enough of his head to protect Lunafreya and Ravus  _and_ send word of Glauca's attack to Ardyn shortly after. Less than two years later, his immortal uncle had brought the man behind the imperial mask before his former comrades in chains.

Three years have passed since Titus Drautos was killed for war crimes and high treason, but Regis has never hated the man more than he does now that he knows what further damage he has wrought.

 

"So in summation, we're all dead here one way or another," Ardyn says easily. Enough time has passed for a young maidservant to arrive and refill drinks, and for him to shoo her away when she offers leftover dinner prepared by his sleeping nephew. The king and queen have resettled into their original chairs, and he has conjured a garish one from his Armiger with a snap. "Can we get back to you two telling me why you  _shouldn't_ tell your children that they will die doing the world a great service?"

Regis growls: "The knowledge would crush Noctis' spirit."

"He's such a spirited boy, though! And children are so resilient."

"The blood of the Oracle may not be necessary to fulfill the prophecy," Sylva explains.

Ardyn stares up at the collection of shadows on the ceiling. They're currently forming a tiny sword and trident and pretending to fight one another. "Mmm, perhaps I'd buy that if the same wasn't also true of the  _first_ Fleuret. She was superfluous to the destiny of the Chosen King. Yet she too communed with the gods, and it was their words to her which set this whole miserable story into motion. I'd be  _shocked_ if your lovely little Lunafreya wasn't required to repent for her sins in some way. It fits so well with the gods' aesthetic, you know? Repetitive and unnecessarily rough."

"The  _first_ Oracle?" Regis demands. He doesn't recall her tale from his readings.

Sylva fills him in. "My most distant aunt, Bahamut's chosen. Aera Mirus Fleuret."

"A true beauty and a firecracker," Ardyn elaborates. Something in his face is unusually soft. "And a lot more fun to spend time with than the majority of her sister's descendants, present company notwithstanding."

"Why, Ardyn!" The queen smiles for the first time since learning she isn't much longer for this world. "I do believe you've finally grown fond of me."

"Bah, nonsense. You'll never hold a candle to Crepera or Aulea."

"Hush," Regis says stiffly; when said aloud, the name still stings.

Ardyn closes his mouth and says no more about her. Possibly something in Regis' voice or expression dissuades him from singing the late queen's praises, even in jest.

"In this  _inspired_ plan of yours, when will you tell Noctis and Lunafreya the truth?" he says, when at last he speaks again. "Or will you leave that icky job to the Draconian and his ilk once you've both rotted away?"

Regis closes his eyes. "...I will abdicate when Noctis is twenty-three. After he is crowned, I will tell him of his fate."

The Accursed scowls like he's eaten one of the Prince's least favorite vegetables. "Ten years. You want me to be silent for another  _ten years_?"

"I want you to respect my wish for Noctis to live some fraction of a full, happy life."

"Do you dare to lecture me about  _respect_ , Regis Lucis Caelum? About  _happiness_?"

Sylva holds her hand up to quiet Ardyn's snarl and waylay his second shift in appearance. "Ardyn, we discussed the need to alter the terms of our agreement before your arrival. Based on this, I am willing to tell Lunafreya the truth about her duty as the Chosen King's Oracle, and about your true identity."

"When?" Ardyn presses.

"Lunafreya will turn eighteen this autumn. Would you be willing to wait three months?"

"Ah, a much more palatable unit of time! Certainly, Sylva, so long as you allow me to be there when you tell her. I'd like to test her mettle."

That sounds absolutely terrifying to Regis, but Sylva agrees readily. She's always been much braver than him or any of his retinue.

Still, the mild capitulation is enough. The would-be Founder King leans back in his conjured chair with a sigh which suggests satisfaction. Like any child who has thrown a tantrum and finally gotten something they wanted in the first place, he is now content to dismiss some of the shadows and pools of darkness that were nearly choking the room minutes before, along with relighting the candles and warming the room back up with re-purposed fire magic.

Regis rubs pensively at his Ring, then gives that up for taking a generous sip out of his newer glass.

"Nothing else to say, nephew mine? Have you no other arguments for me playing nice with the Chosen King, pretending we don't all live on borrowed time?"

"No, Ardyn, I don't," he sighs. In one night, he has faced the newly-inevitable end of his friend and her kind, guileless daughter, and the knowledge settles alongside the constant gut-punch of his son's flimsy string of fate. "I am tired."

Ardyn frowns and lifts one wine-red eyebrow.

 _Yes, I am giving up without a fight_ , Regis thinks, avoiding the piercing gold of his uncle's gaze.  _You are determined to make your end as bitter and miserable as you can—and tonight I have no energy to dissuade you from your path._

"Hmm. Crushing your spirit gives me less satisfaction than I anticipated.... Perhaps we should table the old quarrel for now, what say you?"

The king shrugs. "If that is your wish, Uncle."

"Oh dear. You haven't called me that in  _many_ decades." Ardyn gestures to the door and the guest rooms beyond. "I'm not a healer any longer, but my diagnosis for you matches the queen's: you are in shock, Regis. You might benefit from a good night's rest after all."

"And less brandy on the way to bed," Sylva murmurs, in a mild attempt to lighten the mood.

"Very well. You needn't team up on me."

Regis rises, set on finding the very comfortable silk sheets and pillows his back and legs remember fondly. Turning to his left, he takes Sylva's hand and squeezes it briefly.

"Thank you for your time and your drinks, Sylva."

"It's a pleasure. Get some sleep, Regis, won't you? Breakfast will be late tomorrow. You  _are_ still on vacation."

He smiles and lets her go. "Sleep in? I'll do my best."

She smiles back, and her smile doesn't slip an inch when she turns back to their uninvited guest. "Ardyn, though we may have started speaking without you, that is no reflection on our regard for you. My invitation stands; you're more than welcome to stay in Tenebrae with Regis and Noctis. I can prepare a room for you..."

"No need," Ardyn says politely. He starts ticking an invisible list off on his large fingers as he gets to his feet. "My smaller nephew has a bad habit of doing stupid things to try and earn my favor if I'm within warping distance. I also  _did_ promise our king that I'd play monarch for Lucis while he was away so Niflheim wouldn't get any ideas. Unlike my dearly departed brother, I do like to keep my promises. Mmm, and I suppose I  _should_  collect Cor from wherever he has ended up while tailing me this time. No, I simply must leave if I want to get back before midday."

"Very well," Sylva echoes, and takes his hand again. "Travel safely, and with my blessing."

"My curse will just make that bounce off," Ardyn laughs. A different, darker gleam comes into his eyes, and he pulls the queen closer by their connecting hands. "Care to bless me in a more tangible way...?"

 _"Ardyn!"_   she gasps, and the king with her.

"Kidding! Only kidding, my dear. It's much too late for a proper romp. But I'll happily escort you to your chambers, and if you're sleeping in tomorrow—"

Regis takes it upon himself to stride over as fast as his cane will allow, seize Ardyn by the cape and pull him toward the study door, straight through the melting snow flurries still lingering on the carpet. "What the archduke  _means_ to say is 'good night to you', Sylva. I will see him off myself."

Her laughter follows them out, and can be heard even after she gently shuts the door behind them.

 

"You are a spoilsport!" Ardyn declares, half-bent over but keeping pace. "This is the third time you have cockblocked me in three years, Regis. This is not a trend you wish to continue, or I'll make good on my threat to seduce your Shield during a critical war council."

"Please never say the word  _cockblock_ in my presence ever again," Regis says with a shudder. The discomfort he gets from Ardyn's easy way with modern slang never quite goes away. The first time he heard the man say _fuck_ he'd retreated to the nearest chapel of Etro for two hours. "As for coaxing Clarus into your bed—and I cannot believe you have put this thought into my mind  _again_ in the middle of the night—I assure you, he knows better than to be drawn in by your charms. The same is true for Sylva."

The older man snorts. "Clarus would be easy as a locked door and a very long, sweaty training session. And Sylva? Even simpler. The Lucis Caelum and Fleuret families have been drawn toward one another repeatedly over the last two thousand years, and not simply by the gods or the magic. You should be flattered that I've deigned to notice one of the Oracles in your lifetime—and your contemporary at that! Why, the last time I bothered seriously flirting with a queen or princess of Tenebrae was back in the 500s when they had a few odd brunettes come into the line."

"Do you ever get tired of giving me a headache?"

"Dear Regis. If I ever grew tired of annoying you and placating you in turns, the world would be worse off. It's much better this way, with me putting up with your inane prattling about morals and proper protocol while consistently reminding you of your place in the universe."

There's an undercurrent of pointed mockery in the teasing words that sobers Regis up. Though he knows his ancestor's concern for him as an individual is genuine, his tone tells him that their disagreement tonight trod dangerous ground. Ardyn allows him a lot of leeway in raising Noctis as more than a slaughter-bound pig, but he has never let go of his displeasure at the secretive tightrope Regis has made them all walk. Only the Ring's interference, years of mutual respect and the unpredictable results of any real fight between them kept Regis' head on his shoulders tonight after he'd openly defied his uncle's wishes.

His own father and king, Mors, warned Regis more than once not to incur Ardyn's anger.  _"The eldest Lucis Caelum of all in a true rage is not an experience you want to have or remember,"_   the man had stressed more than once. Though things seldom came to blows or grudges in the kingdom's long history, the result of pissing an immortal being off were drastic all the same.

While Ardyn remained in Insomnia, the huge amount of power and magic he commanded meant he could bolster the Wall and lend strength and vitality to his descendants, extending their brittle lifespans anywhere from a few years to an extra decade. But an angry Ardyn could leave Insomnia and its king to the mercies of Niflheim and other distant, hostile nations and wander the world for decades, and had done so before. Mors' grandfather and Ardyn had had a disagreement once about whether or not to invade Niflheim, and the words spoken had enraged the latter so much that he left Lucis to its own devices (and the king to the full drain of the Ring) until Mors was born—meaning he only saw the former king again on his deathbed. Mors himself had said something insulting enough that Ardyn had abandoned him for a shack somewhere in Duscae when Regis was just a boy. He vaguely remembers a time at around age 4 where his 'uncle Ah-den' was nowhere to be found and his father refused to mention him for the three years he was gone.

A lot more daemons could be found around the continent after that, too.

Niflheim is greatly weakened these days without their finest general, but that doesn't mean Regis wants to risk pushing their strongest line of defense away from the kingdom for who-knows-how-long.  _What if he disappeared until Noctis ascended...?_

He shakes himself, and looks for words to (hopefully) soothe the invisible tension between them.

"I am sorry, Ardyn. My wishes are unchanged, but I do not take pleasure in making you unhappy. I have respected you all my life, and done my best to rule in a way you would approve of."

The other man doesn't speak immediately. Instead he blows out a breath and rolls his eyes, putting a firm hand on his king's shoulder and keeping it there until they make it to the guest quarters Regis was assigned. It's not until they arrive that he waves his other hand dismissively. "Hush, Regis, you're drunk. You always get so maudlin when you imbibe."

"My words were genuine," Regis insists.

"I never questioned their validity." Ardyn wiggles his left index finger. Red sparks dance off the tip, become wind magic and open the bedroom door. The whole time, his expression remains unreadable. "My own observation stands. You are drunk, and you should sleep it off if you want to be presentable for the children tomorrow."

"Ardyn—"

"Didn't you just say you respected me? Yes? What _was_ it your father used to always say—ah, yes. Respect your elder, _boy_ , and get some rest. I'll see you back in Insomnia."

The more painful reminder of Mors distracts Regis long enough for Ardyn to muss his hair, knock his crown slightly off-center and push him inside. Then, with an exaggerated bow, he turns toward the main hall and summons a dirk, warping out of view. The shadows that had trailed their steps departed with him.

There's no point in going after him—even to ensure that he is not offended or enraged. Either he will be back at home by the time Regis, Noctis and Ignis return, or he will take off to parts unknown, and Clarus will send Regis a very long letter in a few days. 

_Ah, Ardyn..._

He sighs. The Accursed hates to be pitied, but pity is stabbing him in the breast and making a home in the hole it created. Ardyn would not believe Regis if he admitted that he lost as much sleep lamenting over  _his_ fate as he did with Noctis', but it is so. The twilight of his reign seems littered with aches and worries about the future of those he loves.

_Ardyn, Sylva, Lunafreya, Noctis..._

Regis has enough mobility left to limp to bed without his cane, and re-dress for sleep with minimal delay. Whether it is the brandy or Fenestala's tendency to run warm, it doesn't take him long to get comfortable and slip into the realm of dreams.

And as always, despite his best efforts, his worries slip in with him.

 _None of you deserve what will come_.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! now if you'll excuse me, I have to go fistfight Square-Enix's entire board of directors.


End file.
